


brouter le cresson, or, cunnilingus time!

by velavelavela



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: Boot Worship, Cunnilingus, Foot Jobs, Humiliation, Kneeling, M/M, Overstimulation, Trans Male Character, like i really dont know what the ao3 tags would be for this but youll see.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velavelavela/pseuds/velavelavela
Summary: “Kneel, Rook,” Vil says, his voice something almost sing-songy, a fluid and beautiful command from Rook’s queen, “in front of the chaise.”And, of course, Rook must follow it. He doesn’t question, he doesn’t say anything. He’s helping Vil. He smiles, eyes halving, “oui.”or, rook's tongue is good for things other than french
Relationships: Rook Hunt/Vil Schoenheit
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32





	brouter le cresson, or, cunnilingus time!

**Author's Note:**

> hi i present you with another rookvil fic.  
> partially inspired by the fact that i cant get "i gave your girlfriend cunnilingus on my couch" from ashnikko's song "slumber party" out of my head. it's something about the word "cunnilingus" tbh? sounds like a pasta.  
> just a housekeeping thing: my beta mentioned terminology for vil in terms of body/sex so i wanted to express that i am trans masc and this is what i personally am comfortable with and think he'd be comfortable with ♥  
> thanks for reading. ily.

After yoga, Vil and Rook hit the showers in their respective rooms, and then meet up at Vil’s, where Vil wants to go over something or another having to do with the upcoming VDC. Rook’s muscles ache deliciously, and he sits on the chaise at the foot of Vil’s bed, rolling his ankles one after the other in the air to stretch.

“Rook,” Vil snaps once in front of Rook’s face, “pay attention!”

“I am,” Rook smiles.

Vil rolls his eyes, tapping away with his thumbs at his phone.

“What are we doing today, mon Roi de Poison?”

Vil groans, collapses on the bed on his back, tossing his phone to the side. He’s wearing a thin shirt, jeans, and a pair of riding boots, and Rook knows that Vil is in a mood by the way that he’s done sharp points with his eyeliner and curved his brows more drastically downward after his shower.

“Am I beautiful, Rook?”

“Why, mon cher, you are the most beautiful of all!” Rook throws his hands up, swiveling quickly to face Vil, who is covering his face with his hands.

“You are more beautiful than a wide birch grove, a pale newborn colt, a clydesdale’s gait--”

“Thank you, Rook,” Vil sighs.

“Can I do anything to comfort you?”

Vil peeks out between two fingers, rolls onto his side. He braces an elbow on the duvet, making a dent in the blanketing, props his perfectly-contoured cheek in a perfectly-molded hand.

“Maybe.”

“Anything for you.”

Vil raises his eyebrows, sits up. He looks pointedly at the ground before Rook. His eyes are delicious.

“Kneel, Rook,” Vil says, his voice something almost sing-songy, a fluid and beautiful command from Rook’s queen, “in front of the chaise.”

And, of course, Rook must follow it. He doesn’t question, he doesn’t say anything. He’s helping Vil. He smiles, eyes halving, “oui.”

He drops into a squat, pushes his legs forward until he is on his knees, resting on his thighs, feet sticking out behind him. He looks up, waits patiently for Vil’s next command, but Vil simply watches him with cold eyes the color of lilacs in winter, the color of rounded shadow, the color of eyes. Then Vil tilts his head slightly, smiles viciously.

Rook doesn’t ask what Vil is doing yet-- he knows that his queen will let him know when it is time. Rook is a patient man, even as he feels himself growing hard inside his pants, as Vil is undoing his own belt with his dainty fingers, taunting. When the belt is off, Vil steps away from the chaise, circles Rook. Rook can feel his calculated footsteps through the rug. He looks up at Vil, craning his neck, until Vil grabs his hair and rights his head forward. Rook hisses at the sudden pain.

“Give me your arms,” Vil says, letting go of his hair, and Rook does just that. 

Vil loops the belt around Rook’s nimble wrists, and Rook feels the rough tug of tightening.

“Is that fine?” Vil breaks character for a moment, softly, and Rook nods once, quick, eager. Vil buckles the belt, pulling Rook’s arms taut before dropping them. They hit Rook’s boots, and he wiggles his fingers for a moment before clasping his hands.

Vil stays behind him. Rook is aching to know what he’s doing. He can feel Vil’s balance shift, and he hears an unzip. The boots tumble to his left, the pants nick his arm on the right. And Vil places a hand on Rook’s head for balance, Vil’s weight like that of cracking an egg open. The egg being Rook’s skull. He feels something join the pants on his right-- Vil’s briefs. And then Vil is putting his boots back on, circling Rook, and perching on the chaise before him.

Rook’s cheeks feel warm, like the sun is blessing his skin, his queen is blessing his skin. Then, Vil lowers his foot onto Rook’s crotch, and Rook gasps, which is followed by a soft laugh. He looks up once again at Vil, who adjusts his foot slightly, catching Rook’s dick in the arch, pressing his toes into Rook’s abdomen.

Vil’s legs fall apart like moonflower petals, baring himself to Rook’s view like a delicacy. Vil scoots forward a bit, foot pressing into Rook’s crotch, and Rook can’t help but whimper. A smile paints onto Vil’s face as he hooks his leg around Rook’s shoulder, coming closer, closer, closer, until Rook’s face is between his thighs, at the crux of his body. 

Rook huffs, moving his hips against Vil’s boot, the friction almost too much. He opens his mouth, testing Vil’s inner thigh with a soft kiss. All the while, Rook watches his queen’s face, his determined smile flickering slightly into something of pleasure, want. Rook closes his eyes, pushing harder and harder against Vil’s foot, rutting at this point. He can’t keep quiet, even as he kisses Vil’s legs some more, tugging with his teeth to try and stifle the noises. His moans lick the air like flames, until Vil takes his hair and tugs it forward, closer to Vil’s crotch.

Rook is shaking, but he glances up at Vil again.

“May I--”

“May you what?”

“Taste you.”

Vil nods, and, as Rook continues to grind, he opens his mouth, licks Vil upward first, parting his folds with his tongue and lips, sucking on the flesh. Vil’s abdomen juts forward, and Rook takes it that he’s doing a good job. Rook moves his tongue around Vil’s clit, lapping at the sensitive space that makes Vil’s breath hitch.

As Rook reaches climax, his nails digging into his palms behind his back, Vil pushes his head against his pussy. Rook works hard, gasping and sputtering, to pleasure his queen through his own orgasm.

When he’s done and he feels tears in the corners of his eyes, welling away his mascara, he pulls away slightly, looks up at Vil.

“Keep going,” Vil commands, sneering down at Rook. Rook nods, jerking his hips in his aftershocks, before growing uncomfortable with the friction that had just felt so good. When Vil presses down again, Rook gasps in discomfort.

“I’m not taking the boot off until I come, Rook.”

Rook hisses, nodding, more tears gathering in his eyes. He returns to his work, kissing and mouthing at Vil’s pussy. There’s something about it that definitely turns Rook on through the pain. Every time he tries to shrink away from the foot, Vil presses harder.

But he is not here to come. He’s here to make Vil come.

And that he does-- after Rook begins to focus on Vil’s clit again, Vil grabs his hair again and pulls him closer until all Rook can taste is the saltysweet of Vil, all he can think of is Vil above him, moaning louder and louder, all he can feel is not the foot anymore, but the way that Vil shudders towards him, clit throbbing beneath his tongue.

Vil’s chest heaves for a few, long seconds. A slurry of come and lipstick spills out from between his legs, a line of spittle connecting from Rook’s chin to his clit. Vil unhooks his leg from Rook’s shoulder, slides his boot off Rook’s pants. He stretches his ankle slightly, grinning.

“That was wonderful, Rook.”

“My pleasure,” Rook smiles.

“I guess I’ll have to take another shower,” Vil sighs. He’s still slightly out of breath from his orgasm, and it’s beautiful.

“Ooh la la! May I wash you?” Rook asks then, and Vil raises his eyebrows with a soft laugh.

“Sure, Rook.”


End file.
